


It's Happening

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request:  “Dean and reader are in the Impala waiting for Sam and Dean pulls out some weed suggesting they smoke, reader isn't new, she's smoked before. Sam, on the other hand is really upset but after explaining that it's not a "bad thing" he smokes with you? Fluff and smut maybe?” (A/N: I’ve set this early on in the timeline – S2 tops.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Happening

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x female reader, Dean
> 
> Request: “Dean and reader are in the Impala waiting for Sam and Dean pulls out some weed suggesting they smoke, reader isn't new, she's smoked before. Sam, on the other hand is really upset but after explaining that it's not a "bad thing" he smokes with you? Fluff and smut maybe?” (A/N: I’ve set this early on in the timeline – S2 tops.)
> 
> Warnings: Drug use, peer pressure, fluff, smut
> 
> Author’s note: This should be pretty self-explanatory, but just to be extra clear, this fic involves marijuana use and if you’re not totally comfortable with that, you should give it a pass. Regardless, you should definitely not get behind the wheel of any car, Impala or otherwise, while under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

It’s just past four o’clock, right around the time you said you’d meet back up at the Impala, and with Sam nowhere to be found, you go ahead and help yourself to the front seat.  Dean’s already sitting behind the wheel, music blaring.  “Any luck?” he asks.

               “Nothing,” you reply.  The three of you drove out to this patch of woods to look for evidence in your latest case, but your search turned up nothing unusual. “You?”

               “I think I might’ve picked up a tick,” he says, “but that’s about it.  You see Sam around?”

               “No, but I’m sure we would’ve heard him yelling.”

               “Right,” Dean nods, and turns the music way down.  The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, bopping your heads to the classic rock.  Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a baggie.  He produces a lighter and a small black pipe from another pocket.  “How do you feel about pot, (Y/N)?” he asks conversationally, starting to fill the pipe as you watch him, baffled.

               “Umm . . . no objection, I guess?” you reply.  “I didn’t know you smoke.”

               He shrugs.  “Sometimes,” he says.  “Sam’s a little uptight about these things; I try not to do it in front of him.” He opens the door and starts to step outside.  “Care to join me?”

               He closes the door behind him without waiting for your response.  “Sure, thanks, why not?” you say quietly to yourself, rolling your eyes and getting out of the car, not one to turn down a generous offer.  Dean’s hopped up to sit on the hood, and you jump up next to him.  He grins.

               “Ahh,” he says.  “I knew you were chill.” He brings the pipe up to his mouth and flicks the lighter on, wrapping his lips around the mouthpiece and breathing deep.  He hands the pipe over to you while he holds his breath, ready with the lighter when you put it to your mouth.  It’s been a long while since you partook, and you’re determined not to embarrass yourself by coughing.  You fail. The first lungful burns like hell and you sputter it out almost immediately.  Dean puts a hand on your back.  “Take it easy,” he says as you cough, exhaling a plume of smoke.

               “I’m good,” you insist with a gravelly voice, raising the pipe to your lips again.  You take another long pull while Dean holds the flame over the bowl, and it still burns, but you manage to suppress your cough long enough to hold it in and pass the pipe back.  It’s good stuff, and it isn’t long at all before you start to feel the first prickling sensations of intoxication.  You exhale, staring up at the column of smoke you create.

               “How’s that?” Dean asks, grinning.

               “ _So_ much better,” you say, returning his smile. He nods and waits another minute before speaking again.

               “So,” he starts, and it sounds loaded.  He lights up the bowl again and takes a quick puff. “. . . You and Sammy.” He glances over at you, questioningly, hand with the pipe outstretched.

               “Excuse me?” you say, taking it from him and taking another lungful as he holds the lighter for you.  You feel yourself flushing and try to turn your face away.

               “Has it happened yet, or what?” he asks, as you hold in the smoke.

               “I don’t know what _it_ is, but I assure you it has not,” you say, exhaling, handing him the pipe and leaning back on the hood of the Impala.  You stare up at the sky, bright but overcast, and hope that Dean drops the subject.

               “That’s too bad,” he says, craning his neck to look at you.  “He likes you.”

               You try, and fail, to hide the goofy grin that creeps up on your face.  “Shut up,” you say unconvincingly.

               Dean nods and turns back to finish up the bowl.  “You like him,” he says, smugly.

               You’re about to protest when Sam approaches the Impala, seemingly out of nowhere.  “Dean, what the hell are you doing?” he shouts petulantly, appearing in front of you. “We’re working.”

               Dean shrugs and looks over at you.  “Oops,” he says with a chuckle.  You burst into giggles.

               “(Y/N), seriously?” he says, “You too? Do you realize how bad for you that is?”

               You sit back up and shoot him an incredulous look. “You hunt monsters for a living!” you exclaim. “Have some perspective!” Sam’s face is dead serious but all you can think of is how adorable he looks when he frowns, and how kissable his lips look when they’re pursed. After a moment of silence, you ask, “Did you find anything?”

               “No,” he huffs. 

               “Then I’d say we’re not working, after all,” you say cheekily, attempting to be charming.  Sam’s frown doesn’t budge.

                “I guess there’s no point in worrying about how the car smells, now,” Dean says, jumping to his feet and heading back around to the driver’s side door. 

               “Shotgun!” you shout, hopping off the hood and dashing to the passenger side door.  Sam continues to pout while you get into the car, then rolls his eyes and gets in the backseat.  He sighs angrily.

                “I know _you’re_ just an idiot,” he says, glaring at Dean, “but why are _you_ doing this, (Y/N)?”

               You share a look with Dean and you both fight hard to hold back more laughter.  “It’s really not that big a deal,” you say. “It’s no different from booze, and I know you can put _that_ away.  Have some and see.”

               He shakes his head.  “No, thanks.”

               “More for us,” Dean says, shrugging. He unrolls his window, packs a little more weed into the pipe, and lights it up again. Sam sits in the backseat and tries to act like he’s not sulking while you and Dean share the bowl.  You let your head fall back against the seat, smiling contentedly, totally relaxed.

               After a few minutes, Sam leans forward, right up close to you, examining your face.  He’s probably never seen you this untroubled.  “Really,” he says, annoyance replaced with genuine curiosity. “What’s it like?”

               “You’ve seriously never tried it?” you ask.

               Sam shakes his head.

               “But you went to college!” you exclaim.

               “Dude, just try it,” Dean says.  You and Sam ignore him.

               You sigh, searching for words to describe what you’re feeling.  “It’s like . . . it’s like taking a vacation from your brain,” you say, nodding sagely.

               Dean laughs, “What?? That makes no sense,” he says.  Sam looks to you to elaborate.

               “Okay,” you say, making a face at Dean, “it’s like it takes the weight of everything you’re worrying about and just lifts it off for a while.  Your problems don’t bother you.  And you kinda can’t remember why they did in the first place.”

               “I just get hungry and horny and happy,” Dean says, grinning.

               “Like you needed to be hungrier and hornier,” you say, giggling.  Sam actually breaks a smile, too.

               “You really think I should try it, (Y/N)?” Sam asks doubtfully.

               “YES,” Dean says.

               “Only if you want to, Sam,” you tell him.  “I will not be responsible for corrupting you.” Dean snorts, but says nothing. Sam looks back and forth between you and Dean.  He sighs dramatically.

               “ _Fine_ ,” he says.  “Give it here.”

               You take the pipe and lighter from Dean and pass the pipe back to Sam.  He looks at you, questioningly.  “Put it in your mouth,” you say, and Dean chortles.  “You shut _your_ mouth,” you say sharply to him.  He raises his hands in surrender and turns up the music, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, smirking. You turn your attention back to Sam.  He holds the mouthpiece between his lips, and for a second, you’re distracted staring at them.  He looks to you with expectant eyes.  You bring the lighter up to the bowl.  “When I light it, breathe in,” you explain, “but not too hard.  It’s gonna burn.”  He nods slightly without breaking eye contact.   

               You light it up, and Sam keeps right on looking at you as he inhales.  His face scrunches up as the burn hits his throat, but he manages not to cough.  “Now hold it,” you say, grinning as his eyes start to water and he releases the smoke in one quick puff. 

               “That’s horrible,” Sam says, and you giggle.

               “Give it a minute,” you say reassuringly.  “You want a little more?”

               “Should I?” he says.  You nod, and light up the bowl for another lungful.  He holds it for ten seconds, and finally succumbs to a coughing fit.  He’s smiling when he catches his breath.  “You okay?” you ask, as he grins dopily at you.

               “Yeah,” he says, sounding surprised. “I’m pretty damn good.”

               You grin, and take the pipe from him to finish off the bowl.  Dean reaches into the backseat to clap Sam on the back, then starts up the engine.  “Everybody good?” he asks.

               “Perfect,” you reply.

               “Let’s get out of here,” he says, cranking up the music once again.

               You look back at Sam, lying back against the seat in his own little world.  Dean revs the engine and hits the road.

* * * * *

               You pull into the parking lot of the motel room you’ve rented for the night.  Dean stops the car but doesn’t get out.  “I’m gonna go get us some burgers,” he says.  “I assume you want a salad, Sam?” he says to his brother, who’s been silently enjoying the music the entire ride back home.  Sam grins.

               “Actually,” he says, “I could go for some French fries.”

               Dean chuckles and looks over at you.  “Burger for you, (Y/N)?”

               “Yup,” you agree, “and I’ll take some fries, too.”

               “Three burgers, three fries.” Dean says. He looks at you meaningfully.  “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

               You roll your eyes at him.  “We’ll be waiting,” you say, opening the car door.  “How you doing, Sam?” you ask as you get out of the Impala. He makes his way, a little clumsily, out of the car.  “Great,” he says, flashing the million-dollar smile that makes you weak in the knees.

               “Good,” you say.  You close the door and rap twice on the roof of the car.  Dean drives off, and you fumble in your pocket for the room key.  Sam follows you across the parking lot, and you manage to find the correct door and operate the lock with minimal difficulty.   You enter the room and kick off your boots, and Sam closes the door behind you.  He flops back onto the bed closest to the door as you walk over to turn the radio on. 

               “Do we have any soda?” he asks you.      

               You open up the mini-fridge and find one lonely Coke.  “Catch!” you shout, tossing it over to him.  He misses entirely, and the can rolls onto the floor and under the other bed.  Sam bursts out laughing, and you can’t help laughing, too.  He looks so young to you right now, without the lines of worry that are usually etched on his face.  You find yourself wishing it could always be this way. “Good one,” you tease, trying to shake it off.  You crawl under the bed to reach the Coke, and wiggle your way back out to find he’s at the edge of his bed, watching you.  “Thanks for your help,” you snark.

               “You seemed to have it under control,” he replies, smirking.

               You pop open the can and take a few long swallows, the cold soda feeling heavenly on your parched throat. 

               “Hey,” Sam objects, “that was for me!”

               “I’ve earned it,” you say, taking one more gulp before holding out the can to him.  He reaches to take it from you, his hand covering yours for a moment, the two of you maintaining eye contact a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  You let go of the can and quickly look away.  You take a deep breath and attempt to think clearly.  He’s flirting, no question, but he’s also smoked up for the first time in his life, so _anything_ probably looks good.  Nor would you put it past Dean to yank your chain about it. _On the other hand,_ you think _, if this is happening, do I really want to be the one who stopped it?_

Sam interrupts your debate.  “You going to stay on the floor, or . . ?” he asks, and when you look at him, he’s holding out his hand to help you up. You accept, and before you have time to think anything else, he’s pulled you up onto the bed.  The two of you topple over into a heap, and when you go to roll off him, he holds you in place with an arm around your waist.  He grins at you.

               “Hi, (Y/N),” he says, his face inches away from yours.  You can’t help but smile back.

               “Hi, Sam,” you say, blushing. “How you doing?”

               “So good,” he replies.  “You?”

               You’re on top of Sam with his arms around you, feeling his hipbones pressing into your thighs, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath.  You’re smelling his deodorant and the laundry detergent on his shirt and the faint trace of weed on his breath.  You’re a short six inches from kissing distance.  You’re damned near perfect.  “I’m good,” you say.

               He shifts a little beneath you, and it becomes apparent that he’s enjoying the closeness as much as you are.  “I feel like I should tell you something,” he says, and you’re sure he’s intentionally pressing himself against you as he says it. “I heard you and Dean talking about me earlier.”

               You grimace slightly.  “Sorry about that,” you say.

               “Don’t be sorry,” he says, “I just want to know if he was right.”

               “Was he right about you?” you ask, coyly.

               He laughs softly. “Um, yes,” he says. “You?”

               You nod.  “Very much yes,” you say, blushing all over again. 

               “I see,” Sam says, biting his lip, eyes dropping down to your mouth.  “You’re not just saying that because you’re high?” he asks.

               “Are you?” you retort.

               “Nope,” he says, still staring at your mouth.  He slides his hands up against the sides of your waist, shifting again so that there’s no mistake he’s pressing into you on purpose. He raises his head up off the bed so that there’s only an inch of space between your lips.

               “Me neither,” you whisper, and then there’s no space at all.  Sam catches your lower lip between his and tugs gently.  Your stomach does a flip and he’s looking back up into your eyes, grinning.  Then he’s kissing you properly, warm, soft lips moving flush against yours, sensuously slowly but still enough to take your breath away.  Your hips move on autopilot, and you find them swivelling right into Sam’s, the bulge in his jeans pressing hard between your legs.  He moans softly into your mouth, now opened up to accommodate his tongue.  It swirls languidly against yours, and your fingers move up to tangle themselves into his hair.  It’s as soft as you imagined, and when you squeeze together a fistful, he moans again and bucks his hips up into yours.  He breaks off the kiss to catch his breath.

               “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing that,” he breathes, grin wide and face flushed.  He rubs his thumbs along the narrow sliver of skin that’s exposed between your jeans and your jacket.

               “Pretty sure I do, actually,” you murmur, brushing the tip of your nose against his before you lean in for another kiss.  In a swift motion, Sam rolls the two of you over, positioning himself between your legs so you’re spread wide.  He kisses you more urgently, and he grinds himself between your legs hard enough to make you gasp.  He runs one hand up under your shirt as he humps you, slender fingers pushing beneath the underwire of your bra, then finding your nipple and pinching.  You moan, and Sam breaks away from your lips to lavish his attention on your neck.  The motion of his clothed erection against the seam of your jeans begins to drive you mad, and you’re just about to start removing a layer or two of fabric when the lock turns in the motel room door.

               There’s about enough time for Sam to lift his head from your neck and look up, hair all in disarray, before Dean steps into the room carrying bags of fast food.  He sees the two of you and stops as though he’s walked into a sliding glass door.  “Ohhkay,” he says, quickly averting his eyes.  “It’s happening.”  You burst into giggles and hide your face in Sam’s shoulder.

               “Dude!” Sam barks, and you hear the door closing behind Dean as he makes his retreat.  You both succumb to another fit of laughter, then Sam’s leaping up to throw the deadbolt on the door.   You take the opportunity to get rid of your jacket, and Sam follows suit.  He pulls his shirt off too, and it’s not the first time you’ve seen him bare-chested, but it’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to _look_ , and you resolve in that moment to never make fun of him for eating salads again.  You return the favour, taking your time in taking your shirt off since you have such an appreciative audience.  He watches entranced as you reach behind your back to unhook your bra and let it fall to the bed.  “Holy shit,” he whispers, and you smile abashedly.

               Then he’s on you again, whipping you up in a frenzy of kisses and teeth and raking hands and searching fingers.  His mouth latches onto your nipple as one hand pulls your head back by the hair and the other works the fly of your jeans open.  You close your eyes and whimper as his fingers push their way down into your already-soaked panties and find your swollen clit.  He picks up your slick and starts tracing lazy circles around it, grinning up at you with your nipple caught between his teeth as you moan and press into him.  “Look at you,” he says softly, fingers swirling.  “So worked up already.”

               “I want you, Sam,” you tell him, between gasps, as if it needed saying.

               “You’ve got me,” he replies, lip upturned in a cocky smile, pressing his fingers harder against your clit, eliciting fresh moans. He runs his tongue all the way up from between your breasts to the tip of your chin, and when his mouth meets yours again, you suck hungrily at his lips. The steady motion of his fingers starts to get you where you need to go, and you pant between kisses as the tension builds in your core. You’re moments away from tipping when he stops and pulls his hand away, and you grab him by the shoulders, growling in frustration.

               “Hold that thought,” he says, releasing your hair and making his way down you torso, pausing for another pass at your nipple along the way. He grabs either side of your jeans and pulls them down over your hips, and you lift your ass in the air to expedite things, impatient. He drags them down until your legs are free of them, then drops them onto the floor. He crawls back up between your legs, leaving the occasional kiss along your thighs, and nuzzles you over the drenched lace of your panties when he reaches the apex. You sigh, muscles clenching up in response to the touch.

               “I want to taste you when you come,” he says, slowly sliding your panties off. You whimper, wondering where this Sam came from and why it took so long for you to find each other. Then you’re not thinking at all, because his tongue is slipping between your folds and flicking against the tip of your clit and you know everything feels better when you’re high but you’re pretty sure this is the best thing you’ve ever felt, regardless. Your back arches and your legs squeeze together around Sam’s head as he laps you up again and again, until he pauses to grab you firmly under the thighs and pry them open, holding you there and turning his attention directly to your clit. You throw your head back against the pillow, a stream of sighs and moans and expletives spilling freely from your mouth. You anchor one fist in Sam’s hair and the other in the cheap motel bed spread, and when your legs start to tremble, he wraps his lips around your nub and sucks, sending you screaming over the edge, hips fighting, tingling spreading from head to toe.

                “Holy fuck,” you breathe as you blink your eyes back into focus. “I take it back, you earned the Coke.” Sam chuckles as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste better anyway,” he says, coming up for a deep kiss and showing you exactly what he means. He kisses you slowly, letting you recover, but the erection you feel straining against your thigh tells you he’s very much ready for more. You reach down to stroke it over the front of his jeans, enjoying the way his breath hitches and he tenses up on top of you. You fumble with the button on his fly, and he wastes no time in kneeling up to help you. He’s got his pants and boxer-briefs down around his knees in one quick maneuver, and for a second, all you can do is stare.  He moves to strip the rest of the way, fishing a condom out of his pants pocket before tossing them on the floor next to yours. You watch as he takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times, then unwraps the condom and slips it on. He crawls back on top of you, taking a few more sensuous kisses as cock brushes tantalizingly between your folds.

               He breaks off the kiss and looks to you questioningly, as if you could possibly not want every inch of him inside of you at this moment. “Yes,” you insist, before he can open his mouth to speak. “Please, yes.”

               “All right,” he says with a cheeky smile. “You don’t have to beg.” You go to roll your eyes, but he stops you halfway with one motion of his hips that plunges the entire length of his cock into your slick and craving pussy. You groan and buck up to meet his thrust, and he lifts you even closer with a strong hand at the small of your back, grunting. He fucks you with long, steady strokes, dragging his pelvis against your clit and making your toes curl. You watch him as you move together, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. He’s getting lost in you, and it’s written all over his face. When you start to tense up and the beginnings of your orgasm tingle at your core, you dig one set of fingers into his shoulder and the other set roughly into his hair, winning you a throaty groan. You hold on tight as he pushes you closer and closer, and after the thrust that pushes you over, he grips you up against him with his hand firmly on your ass, riding it out as you cry with each contraction. He doesn’t let go until he tumbles after, eyes rolled up in his head, moaning hoarse. Then he sets you down, your legs like jelly, and gives you one last grateful kiss before disentangling and rolling into his back beside you.

               You look over at him, and he’s wide-eyed and grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving as he catches his breath totally blissed out.  He feels around clumsily until he catches your hand and holds it.  He turns to you.  “Hey,” he says, suddenly excited like a little kid, “do you think Dean saved us any fries?”


End file.
